Страница 25 из 75
Chapter Three
She was going to leave immediately. She would ask to be billeted elsewhere. But there were so many problems involved with that plan that she dithered and stood where she was for several minutes after he had left the room.
It might be too late by now. And perhaps he was right-perhaps she would not qualify since she had not yet been on the stagecoach when it crashed. And the fact that she was supposed to be Mrs. Kemp would necessitate some awkward explanations. And perhaps even billets in the homes of villagers would have to be paid for. Even if payment was not required, she would feel obliged to offer something for her keep. Yet she had no more than a couple of small coins left in her purse.
And…
And, and, and.
And he was Richard. Richard Kemp.
It was as if that realization had only now fully struck her. She sat down hard on the side of the bed and closed her eyes.
Richard was here. He had actually come to her rescue and brought her up to his room. Not that he had looked any too pleased about it. He had looked downright morose, in fact.
Why had he done it, then? She gripped the bedpost with one hand.
Oh, dear God, Richard! What strange, bizarre coincidence had brought them together like this in such a remote corner of England? Stranded them together, in fact. He was stranded here until tomorrow just as surely as she was.
How had she even recognized him? He was very different from what she remembered. He had been little more than a boy when she saw him last. He had been tall and slender and lithe, his face handsome beneath the shock of dark hair though his expression was almost always serious. But his blue eyes were warm and even blazed with intensity during certain private moments. She had fallen headlong, passionately in love with him long before he knew.
And he had loved her long before she knew.
It was all so long ago that it might have happened in another lifetime.
Though it had been real enough at the time and nasty enough at the end.
Nora turned her head and rested her forehead against the bedpost. She had not wanted to live. She had wanted to die. But death could not be willed upon oneself, she had found. She had lived on anyway.
He was a man now with a man’s powerful and perfect body. His face was handsome and cold-those blue eyes were so, so cold. And there was a confidence in his bearing that had not been there before. He looked as if he had been born to command, though of course he had not.
He was Lord Bourne now, she reminded herself. A baron. A stranger. She had never known him by that name.
Why, she wondered again, had he come to her rescue? It was clear he did not like her. Perhaps to gloat? He had told her she might choose whichever patch of floor she wanted for tonight. While he slept on the bed. Gallantry had had nothing to do with his offer, then.
Yes, he had done it to remind her just how much their positions had reversed themselves.
She was going to have to seek a billet somewhere else despite all the problems. She would not be beholden to him. Him of all people. She got to her feet and then clutched the bedpost again when someone tapped on the door.
He would come right on in, so she crossed the room and opened the door to find the waiter, carrying a large tray. She could not see what was on the plate, but she could smell the food.
For the first time she realized she was ravenously hungry. She had not eaten since di
“Your husband ordered the tray sent up to you, Mrs. Kemp, ma’am,” the waiter explained.
She did not have the strength of mind to send it away. Richard would have to pay for the food anyway, she reasoned. She might as well eat it. She stood aside to allow the waiter inside to set his tray down on the dressing table.
And after he had left, she ate every last crumb. She drained the pot of tea. And then she wondered if it would be utterly foolish to leave her last coins beside the tray before she left. Yes, of course it would. And pathetic, too.
Where would she go? It was far too late now to ask for a billet. She could go and mingle with the villagers while they celebrated the holiday. But what would she do tonight? She would have to think about that when the time came, she supposed.
And then she remembered his saying, with a heavy sarcasm she had never heard in his voice before, that if she did not want to be his wife, she could be his servant instead.
It was one way to pay for her breakfast. One way to salvage a little of her pride. One way to thumb her nose at him.
She opened his bag. There was not a great deal in it. Clearly he had not expected to spend long on the road. She took out a black tailed evening coat, brushed off some lint, and hung it in the wardrobe. She shook out a white shirt to rid it of wrinkles and hung it up beside the coat. It was of the finest linen, she noticed. She ran her hands over the soft fabric and even lifted it to her cheek for a moment. She was startled by a faint yet familiar smell though the garment had obviously been laundered recently. She smoothed out three starched neck cloths and hung them carefully over the rail beside the shirt. She set a pair of black evening shoes side by side at the bottom of the wardrobe. She left the small pile of undergarments where it was and set out his shaving gear beside the washbowl.
The water pitcher was empty. She pulled on the bell rope and then, when no one answered the summons, she took the pitcher and went downstairs herself to fetch some water. He was not going to be able to say that she had not earned her breakfast.
There were a few people in the taproom and dining room beyond it. Richard was not among them. He must be outside in the yard, perhaps looking at his curricle. She would have plenty of time to slip away before he returned.
Since there were no servants about to help her, she walked right into the kitchen. She caused some consternation there and much bowing and curtsying. She did not have to wait long for the kettle to boil and her pitcher to be filled with hot water. Even so, matters had changed by the time she got back upstairs. When she opened the door and stepped inside, it was to find Richard in the act of stripping off his coat.
“Ah,” he said, turning to look at her, “I thought you had forgotten to take your valise with you when you left.”
“I have returned just for a moment,” she said. “I went to fetch some hot water for you. I thought perhaps you would wish to shave.”
He was looking at her with raised eyebrows.
The pitcher was heavy. He did not come to relieve her of it. She crossed the room and set it down on the washstand.
If the crash had not happened, she realized, he would have driven on his way and she would have boarded the stagecoach and they would never have realized that they had passed within a few yards of each other. She would be on her way to London and he to wherever it was he had been going.
“I will be leaving now,” she said. “Thank you for breakfast.”
“You are not going to shave me?”
His tone was hard, insolent.
She turned her gaze on him.
“Are you not afraid,” she said, “that I would slash your throat?”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a knee-weakeningly familiar half smile. But there was nothing pleasant about this one.
“You have grown sharp, Nora,” he said softly.
He did not mean intelligent. He meant hard, sharp-tongued.
“I have grown up,” she told him.
“In ways you did not expect, I suppose,” he said.
“We none of us know what is in store for us in life,” she said. “We have to grow in whichever direction life takes us. It has been kind to you.”